Beneath the Boardwalk (Alex Turner)

2 {religion vs. science}

The auditoriums here are huge. In Art, we got started to learn basic techniques and are already assigned a project to start off our portfolio. Bio was as expected, hard to keep up. But I was really worried with what Matt had said before. Surely... the wouldn't assign a professor here without checking his background first? Plus, those were only rumours. 

But I didn't want my money to be wasted on somebody who gets wasted all the time. And he's only twenty eight? How come he's only three years older than me and has a PhD? That concerned me. The room is quite large, however, there's only around fifteen people in the room. Four girls in the top corner, two guys in the middle kissing, a guy in a grey hoodie with the strings drawn, and a few other scattered around. I take a place close to the front alone. 

There is a bit of a draft in here. High ceilings. Why would they use such a place like this with such a small class? I grab out a pencil and tap it on the desk while I wait. I check my phone. Turner's late. 

I look out the window, after checking to make sure I was in the right room. It's very dark outside, and the sky has a bit of a violet bruised tinge. I'm so tired already. It's only the first day. 

Thirty minutes late, the professor I assume is Turner, saunters in the auditorium with a dark grey suit. He has extremly dark brown locks that brush against his shoulders and a sharp jawline. The place is very quiet, and the sounds of his shoes clacking on the hollow wooden flooring echoes throughout the auditorium. He has bags underneath his eyes. Something about him.. is unsettling. 

"Alright, we better get started," he drawls in a deep voice, eyes scanning the room. His eyes meet mine for a second and hold it uncomfortably long until I look away. "Sorry I'm late."

What took him thirty minutes long? I'm temted to ask, a bit ticked off. Thirty minutes of my time wasted. 

"We have a few different students in our class," Turner starts.  "New school year brings in new people, all that crap. Welcome whoever 'Ryan,' is, or 'James,' or 'Quinn,' or 'Mikey.'" Turner re-reads the page, not looking up from his sheet. "Only guys this year?"

Wow. Hate him already, Matt was right. I raise my hand. Turner slowly lifts his head and spots me. "My philosophy is that nobody needs to raise their hand in class, it's a stupid tradition and much simpler if one skips the whole process. Speak," he commands, a bit bored. Turner shuffles around papers. 

"It's not all guys. I'm Quinn," I enunciate. 

He raises an eyebrow. "And that's relevant how, darling?" 

Not suprised he's an alcoholic, with an attitude like that I'd want to drink it all away. "I'm not a guy."

"Glad to hear it," he says like nothing I said mattered. His accent is quite thick. Sounds like Matt's, but lower and heavier. I roll my eyes internally and take a deep breath. "Now we're going to start off with a quick essay so I can see all of your dull thoughts and ideologies and just how exactly you thread the bullshit to pass this course with a good grade," Turner keeps on. "You'll have until the end of this class to hand it in.

"It's an opinion essay on the basis of science or religion. Take with it what you will," he says drowsily. Turner clacks his heels up the stairs in the auditorium, making his way to each row to pass out quick facts/prompts. When he passes me mine, I get a quick smell of the smoke that stains his clothing and a musk cologne. He eyes me oddly and I focus my gaze elsewhere. "I bet yours will be particularily boring, darling."

"Confident, huh?" I mumble underneath my breath, hoping he doesn't hear. I bring out a piece of paper and a pencil and start thinking of what to write. Something 'bout his voice got my stomach churning. 

* * *

Ten o clock on the dot. Turner had sat down in one of the chairs below, feet rested on the chair beside, with a pen in his mouth, reading John Cooper Clarke. 

He was twirling the pen in his teeth. Turner looked up at me after I finished, and everybody else left. I handed him my paper, quite proud. He had individually marked them in front of us. It didn't take too long, suprisingly. Turner took the paper and began to read. 

After a minute, he started to chuckle. It was low and throaty, and I got that unsettling feeling again. I shifted on my feet and stuffed my hands in my pockets, eager to leave. "Why are you laughing?" I say, almost snappy. 

Turner smirks up at me and delibrately slow, he draws a D on the page in red pen. "Cliché. Astoundingly boring."

I furrow. "What? I thought I did pretty good."

"You would've... if I thought you had some form of personality in this. You just drone on and on about the obvious. Blah, blah. Delve deeper." Turner looks me up and down, making me feel a bit uncomfortable. His gaze--that's it. The deep brown eyes. Turner laughs. "You should read this book, although I don't know if you'd like his style," he holds up a binded black hardcover, "Joh--"

"John Cooper Clarke, I know," I roll my eyes. "I believe you're synonymous with the poem, 'I don't want to be nice.'"

He licks his lips. "You know what..." He squints. "Call me Alexander. What was your name? Quinten? Quarren?" Turner changed the subject. 

"Quinn Greene," I say unamused. 

"Greene," he drawls, particularily slow. I like the way my name rolls off his tongue. "Well, Greene, I'd change this to a B if you made corrections by the next class you have with me."

I snatch the paper from him and walk away. Glad to be out of the auditorium. I can feel Alexander's.... gaze on me as I leave.